Krysta Mangubat
Bio
All I want to do in this world is write. Even if my vocabulary, sentence structure, and other mechanisms are faulty. It’s my escape and my lifeline. I love it, plain and simple.
Stories (4/0)
Depressed Thought #1
Depressed Thought #1 May 5, 2019, 7:06 am My brain is a car. It’s compacted and small, and I’m not in control of it. I can’t unlock it and free myself. I can’t stop driving whenever I want. I can’t drive it when I want. Nothing. If someone else wants to drive it, they can. Every time I’m forced to sit passenger, no matter what. Everyone I let in, I give them control of the wheel. They can blast the radio, they can roll down the windows, and interact with people outside. They can walk out whenever they feel it’s best. If they want to spend time with me, they can hop right in, kick their feet up on the dash, and recline their seat back. But when they’re done, they can just open the door and move on with their own lives. I will forever remain in this car. Jumping from seat to seat, being controlled by whoever wants my company. Eventually I will rust and be thrown into the junkyard and forgotten. Never to be loved again, never to be controlled again. Maybe then will I have my own freewill.
By Krysta Mangubat5 years ago in Poets
Tattered Paper Doll
May 24, 2018, 10:09 PM My body feels as if I’m a pop-up book. Every time someone opens the binding, I pop to life, but I’m made of paper. Fragile and easy to tear. I have betrayed my body, for my body has done the same. My joints feel torn and swollen. My spine no longer supports my neck or my head. My brain won’t shut off and follow my schedule anymore. I’ve lost a part of me to where I’ve become a paper thin, hand-drawn cartoon character in someone’s childhood story. I’m happy, very happy. Then I’m sad, too sad. There’s no balance. Literally I ache and yearn to sleep and fix myself, but I lost control. And I have allowed someone to take the book, and read it cover to cover, draw over the pictures, and create something from their mind’s eye. But when I decide to make changes to myself and my character, I allow their non-reading of my story to affect me so I don’t change for myself. They continue to stretch out my entire body to where I’m torn and worn out. My paper body is crumbled, and I’m ripped. Now I’m thrown into a box left behind and donated to a new person. Not sure of what I am or who I am anymore. The words on my pages barely make sense with scratched out phrases and crayon-colored revised ones. What’s my purpose now? No one will need a used book with another child’s drawings and vandalism on every page. It’s hard to hide with covers falling apart. Oh, well.
By Krysta Mangubat5 years ago in Poets
